


False Assumption

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Speaking in Tongues [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, British Sign Language, Funny, I did no research so sue me, M/M, Misunderstandings, but human fingers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 09:22:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8973982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: When John absentmindedly greets Sherlock in BSL, they each make a false assumption.





	

**Author's Note:**

> BSL = British Sign Language
> 
> This little gem was inspired by a Soulmate AU in which people have their soulmate's first words written on their arm, and Sherlock has nothing. He assumes it's because he has no soulmate, but John is mute, so he never actually speaks to Sherlock. The BSL premise spun out in my head and turned into this, a perfectly formed one shot that coalesced in one delightful hour of frantic typing.
> 
> As I noted, I did absolutely no research for this (it was written in an hour!). If I have made mistakes, particularly with regard to Deaf culture or socially appropriate behaviors, please do let me know. I am conscious that these are important elements of the Deaf community and I mean no disrespect or offense if I have made errors.

John hurried along the path in Regents’ Park, preoccupied by the conversation he had just finished (okay, walked out on), with his sister, Harry. She would never stop drinking, he thought, and he would never stop being saddened by that. He was muttering to himself and still, out of habit, signing a little BSL along with his thoughts when he bumped hard into a man walking the other way.

“Sorry,” he signed out of habit. Just as he was about to correct himself and speak, the man signed back.

“It’s fine.” He stooped to pick up the packages that had scattered on their collision, John helping him do so.

Frowning, John examined one of them. “Is this a human finger?” He spelled with one hand as the other was full of, well, fingers.

The man nodded, and John’s look of shock and interest triggered him to further explain, once he had put the box down on the nearby park bench.

“For experiments,” the man signed. “I have a friend at St. Bart’s that lets me borrow them.”

John’s face lit up at the mention of St. Barts. “I trained at Barts,” he signed, “Who is your friend?” Suddenly he realised he hadn’t introduced himself.

“I’m J-o-h-n,” he said almost as an aside, fingerspelling the name.

“S-h-e-r-l-o-c-k,” the taller man spelled rapidly.

John nodded, then asked again, “Who is your friend? Might be someone I know.”

“I know a number of people at St. Bart's,” Sherlock noted, his long fingers moving gracefully, then narrowed his eyes at John.

“I could do with a medical opinion on my experiment,” he signed, going on to ask hesitantly, “Would you come and have a look at these fingers for me?”

John hesitated, then shrugged and nodded. To be honest, he was intrigued by the experiment. What could this stranger want with a box full of human fingers?

+++

They didn’t converse much on the way, what with Sherlock carrying the box. John thought it would be rude to try and start a conversation Sherlock wouldn’t be able to contribute to without both hands free. When they made it to his front door on Baker Street, the address read 221b. Sherlock bounded up the stairs, and John followed, through the sitting room into the kitchen. Every surface was covered with scientific and medical equipment, petri dishes and flasks. John was flabbergasted.

He moved to be in Sherlock’s sightline before signing, “What does your roommate think of this?”

Sherlock looked at him witheringly. “Do you really thing I have a roommate if my kitchen looks like this?”

John had to concede the point, not many people would put up with this in their kitchen. He grinned, and Sherlock grinned back, clearly excited by the arrival of the fingers.

“So what’s happening with the fingers?” John asked, as Sherlock began to unpack them, stacking them in groups according to some criteria John could not determine.

Sherlock paused to briefly sign, “Acid test.”

John frowned. Acid? He gave up trying to communicate while Sherlock’s hands were busy, content to watch and see.

Once the fingers were unpackaged, Sherlock put two fingers each in a dozen or so petri dishes. He added a different combination of liquids to each one, then carefully placed the lids on, leaving them on the bench. He brushed his hands together and turned to John, who looked quizzically at him.

Sherlock sighed, then signed rapidly enough that John had trouble keeping up. “This experiment is designed to test the effect of different strengths of acid on dead human tissue over a period of time. A man’s alibi depends on it.”

John blinked. “A-l-i-b-i?” He spelled, not sure he had understood the sign correctly. It was not one you’d use every day, that one.

Sherlock nodded, then asked, the sarcasm evident in the flickering movements of his hands, “You do know what an a-l-i-b-i is?”

John, without thinking, replied, “Git.” They both broke into grins at that.

Sherlock asked all of a sudden, “Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” John replied, fingers moving before he could think.

Sherlock practically ran down the stairs and waited impatiently for John at the doorway, where they walked outside together.

John had no idea where they were going but Sherlock seemed confident. His hands were free this time, so John asked, “What do you do that you need to use human body parts to check an alibi?” He hesitantly used the sign for ‘alibi’ that Sherlock had used before, and a rush of pleasure went through him as Sherlock indicated his head and raised his eyebrows to indicate he had noticed and was impressed.

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock replied.

John had followed the signs, but he was still confused. “For Scotland Yard?” He asked, and Sherlock nodded. John shrugged an acceptance of the fact. He’d never heard of the job, but there were lots of things of which he had never heard, doesn’t mean they didn’t exist. They walked for a while, before John removed his hands from his pockets and asked suddenly, “You said you needed a medical opinion at your flat, but I didn’t do anything.”

Sherlock looked at him appraisingly, then changed the subject, saying, “I need a medical consult in,” checked his watch, “fifty three minutes. I figured we might as well get a quick lunch beforehand.”

John was taken aback, then shrugged again. It wasn’t like he had anything else to do.

Just as they arrived at the restaurant, Sherlock turned to John and signed, “I am actually looking for a flat mate.” 

John barked a laugh, the motion startling Sherlock. “With that kitchen?” He asked.

Sherlock shook his head exasperatedly. “I can tidy things up…a bit.” He signed, then added, “I do play the violin while I’m thinking, and I don’t talk for days on end, but I realize that won’t bother you. I can do with your medical opinion on cases, though, if that would interest…” He stopped, hands hallway through the next word as he registered the confusion on John’s face.

“Why wouldn’t your violin bother me?” John asked.

Sherlock stared. “You couldn’t hear it, John. Why would it bother you?”

It was John’s turn to stare. “Of course I can hear it, Sherlock. I’m not deaf.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide, and then they raked over John, taking in the details of his appearance again. “You signed at me!” Sherlock accused in a deep baritone that startled John for its contrast to his slim appearance, then muttered to himself, “Signs fluently like a native, aware of social and physical cues appropriate to the Deaf community, made no effort to speak, did not jump at the car backfiring…”

John laughed at this, then spoke to Sherlock, the action feeling odd after their all but silent interaction so far. “My twin sister was born deaf, I’ve signed my whole life. We both went to a combined school for the hearing and Deaf, so I’ve been around Deaf culture and community forever, that’s why I know so much about it. I’m an Army doctor, I’ve heard enough guns to last a lifetime, and I can tell the difference between a car backfiring and a gun, thanks very much.” He pointed a finger at Sherlock, grinning mischievously. “What’s your excuse?”

Sherlock still looked stunned, muttering, “Army! I thought cruise ship…”, though he did say, “For what?”

John gave him a look and Sherlock spoke again, defending his assumption. “You signed at me first, I assumed you were deaf! Of course I was going to reply in your native language. And you showed no sign of being able to hear during our acquaintance, how was I to know your hearing is not impaired?”

John was still grinning at him, and Sherlock realised he wasn’t angry, just amused. “Let’s get lunch, and we can talk about that flat share.” John said, clapping Sherlock on the back.

Sherlock brightened. “Army doctor, too, hmm?” He asked, adding, “Seen a bit of action then?”

John nodded, then frowned. “Why?” he asked, but Sherlock just smiled to himself knowingly.


End file.
